


you and me and the rigs we ride

by davehotrod



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: (as in richie mentions bev & tom once but that's all), Alternate Universe - Truckers, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, rated t for these boys trashmouths!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25927810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davehotrod/pseuds/davehotrod
Summary: Just about every Sunday, in the wee hours of the morning, he and another driver work the same route along I-80 through the most boring parts of western Illinois and central Iowa, sometimes all the way to Nebraska. Neither of them know where each other’s route starts or ends, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s just nice having someone to chat with.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Richie Tozier
Comments: 17
Kudos: 40





	you and me and the rigs we ride

**Author's Note:**

> title and entire concept from "drive me, crazy" by orville peck. stream show pony

“ _Break one-seven for Trashmouth. You out there, Trashmouth?”_  
  
Richie splutters on his Big Gulp, sets it between his legs so he can fumble for his mic. The voice crackling through on the radio is one he’s become more familiar with than his own in the past month or two. Just about every Sunday, in the wee hours of the morning, he and another driver work the same route along I-80 through the most boring parts of western Illinois and central Iowa, sometimes all the way to Nebraska. Neither of them know where each other’s route starts or ends, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s just nice having someone to chat with.  
  
“Go for Trashmouth, Haystack.” He says, because there’s no use in acting like he doesn’t know who’s calling for him.  
  
 _“Man, I just saw the funniest fucking thing.”_ Haystack starts, and already Richie’s smiling.  
  
“Didja see that fuckin’ lime green Beetle with the clown in the passenger’s seat, too?” Richie practically yells, because it’s been about thirty miles since he passed the fucker and he still can’t stop thinking about it. Of course his buddy noticed it, too.  
  
Haystack’s cackling laughter breaks through. _“Yes! What in the name of_ fuck _was that all about!”  
  
_ Richie laughs heartily to himself, shoulders shaking. The channel’s quiet for a minute, presumably because Haystack’s laughing, too. Richie wipes a bit of moisture from his eyes and listens closely when he hears a click and a change in static on the other line.  
  
 _“He took the exit for Guthrie Center right after he passed me, he must be going to the rodeo.”_  
  
Richie almost snorts cherry Coke out of his nose at this. “Are you very familiar with the rodeo culture of Iowa, Haystack?” he teases.  
  
 _“I’ve been around.”_ Haystack replies, and Richie can hear the smile in his voice, warm and genial with just a hint of smugness. It sends a little shiver up his spine. _“Before I got this job, I was working on my grandpa’s farm in Nebraska. Dunno if you know this, but out there, we’ve got the rodeo capital of the world.”_ Ah, yes, there’s that smugness—it makes Richie laugh again, for so long that he forgets to reply.  
  
 _“Trashmouth? Four-ten, good buddy?”_  
  
“Oh that’s a big ten-four, bud, just laughing my ass off over here at you being familiar with the _rodeo capital of the world_ —” Richie mocks him, and then for a split second worries he’s gone too far with the joke, until Haystack clicks over with a quick _“Fuck you!”_ through a chuckle.  
  
“Fuck _you,_ you fuckin’ hick!” Richie laughs. He keeps his thumb held on the button of his mic so Haystack can hear the sound of it—Richie likes it when he does the same for him. “You sure fly under the radar, all this time I could’ve mistook you for a true cityslicker. Some Chicago asshole like me, even.”  
  
Haystack’s low chuckle rings in Richie’s left ear, but he feels like it fills his whole cab. “Yeah, I’m sneaky like that.”  
  
Richie shakes his head fondly and hangs up his mic. A few chucks of his own bubble out of him over the next few minutes, like nervous energy leftover from riding a rollercoaster. The CB’s silent again.  
  
  
  
—  
  
  
  
Ben’s about five seconds away from pulling over at the nearest rest area when his radio comes to life.  
  
 _“Break one-seven for Haystack. Man, are you_ seeing _this shit?!”_ Trashmouth practically yells into his ear, not even waiting for a response—not that he ever does. Ben breaks out into a grin. Trashmouth must be heading West, too, assuming that “this shit” he’s referring to is the sunset before them. The rolling hills and fields of corn and pastures along the interstate are bathed in golden sunlight, the grass rippling like water in the breeze. The sky is a perfect blend from orange to red to purple, that starts at the horizon and then travels upwards to where Ben can’t crane his neck over the steering wheel any further.  
  
He’s _been_ seeing this shit for about 100 miles now, but he’s glad to feel like he’s sharing it with someone else, now.  
  
“It’s fuckin’ beautiful, buddy.”  
  
 _“Sure is.”  
  
_ Ben keeps looking, keeps driving. The closer he gets to the horizon, the further away it feels, and as the sun starts to set and everything darkens around him, the silence of the radio is like a warm blanket over him. Ben keeps looking at the other side of his cab from the corner of his eye, almost like if he works his mind hard enough he can make out the shape of someone else sitting there. A man. A featureless man, but with a voice that’s all crackling energy and warmth—like a fire built in a potbelly stove.  
  
The sun is long gone by the time he pulls over to get some sleep.  
  
  
  
—  
  
  
  
A few Sundays pass with no word from Trashmouth. Which is perfectly normal—Ben’s own schedule gets tossed and turned around so often he can barely keep track of it himself—but he can’t pretend he doesn’t miss his radio companion. All Ben can do is hope his friend is enjoying his time off from the same old plains.  
  
Ben adjusts the radio in his truck for what feels like the 800th time that morning. The worst part about driving in the middle of nowhere is radio stations drop like flies the second you cross county lines. Some jockey comes on and talks about the weather for a few minutes, and then starts to play Bobbie Gentry’s “Ode to Billie Joe”. Ben fumbles for his CB mic, ready to alert Trashmouth that his favorite song was playing.  
  
“Break for Trashmouth—buddy, you better switch to 103.7 on the radio, they’re playing your girl Bobbie!”  
  
No response. Ben gives it a minute, then tries again. “Break one-seven for Trashmouth?”  
  
Still nothing.  
  
Ben puts his mic back on the hook and tries to loosen his shoulders while he listens to the spiralling violin and plucky guitar close out the song on the radio.  
  
  
  
—  
  
  
  
When Trashmouth makes a call out for Ben’s handle the following Sunday, he’s so surprised to hear his voice that he almost jerks his truck right off the road in his haste to grab the mic.  
  
“Where’ve you been, you fucking dickhead?” Ben asks through incredulous laughter. Right at that moment, he passes a sign marking the exit for a town called What Cheer.  
  
 _“Well, I got some time off from doing these long hauls, and then I ended up needing to help a friend leave uh... a bad situation.”_ Trashmouth says.  
  
Ben immediately clocks the absence of his usual pep. “Shit... Sorry to hear it. Everything’s all right now?”  
  
 _“10-4 bud, she, uh. I served her ex the divorce papers, and she’s staying at my little place for now. I needed someone to water my plants anyhow, so it works out.”  
  
_ That shocks a laugh out of Ben. “You have plants?” He’s delighted and a little bewildered by this new information.  
  
 _“Motherfucker, I told you this before! Yes, I have plants!”_  
  
“Motherfucker, no you have _not_ told me this. I woulda remembered. I remember everything you deign to tell me about you—” Ben feels a little knot twist up in his chest at this admission, but he can’t really take it back now, so he plows on to keep the energy up, “—and you have never, in the I don’t even know how fucking long we’ve known each other, mentioned your plants. Didja name ‘em? I bet you named ‘em.” Ben barks out a laugh and then releases the button on his mic to allow Richie his rebuttal. It never comes. His silence is even funnier than any answer he could possibly give, and Ben clicks his mic again so his laughter will fill the radio waves.  
  
 _“Are you quite finished?”_ Trashmouth asks, sounding haughty but Ben can tell he’s smiling. _“Yes, I did name them. But I’m not gonna tell you their names.”_  
  
“Aww, but why not!” Ben’s still giggling.  
  
 _“I can’t be giving out personal information like that over the radio, c’mon now, boy!”_  
  
Ben glances in his side mirror at that moment, and does not acknowledge the way his cheeks are flushed bright red. “Okay. I’ll get it out of you someday.”  
  
 _“Yeah, maybe one of these days we’ll get to have a beer and I’ll tell you all about my plants.”_ Ben is _really_ avoiding his reflection now. _“I got pictures and everything, it’s pathetic.”  
  
_ Ben just laughs again, not for Trashmouth to hear, but he figures he can imagine it in the empty space of the radio anyway.  
  
  
  
—  
  
  
  
“Trashmouth, you ever been married?” Ben asks, not bothering to break the channel. They’d been talking earlier in the evening, something about their favorite gas station snacks, and it’s about 2am now with hardly anyone else on the road. He figures the radio’s mostly freed up.  
  
 _“Nope. You?”_  
  
An uncharacteristically short answer from his buddy. He figures it’s for a reason, so he doesn’t push it. “Nope.”  
  
Silence again over CB, and Ben finds himself thinking it’s actually pretty weird—he’s surprised Trashmouth hasn’t talked some more to try and change the subject, or even cracked a joke about it. ( _“You proposing?”_ Ben hears him tease in his head, and his ears get hot.)  
  
“I was just thinking about your friend, is all.” Ben continues. “Must be hard having to get a divorce.”  
  
 _“Yeah, well. I imagine he’s having a real rough time without a punching bag around the house anymore.”_  
  
Ben shudders at the words, at how angry he sounds. At how fucking evil this other guy must be. He ignores that part of it altogether, because the last thing Ben wants is to get Trashmouth all worked up while he’s driving.  
  
“Your friend, is she doing okay? Better, at least?”  
  
Trashmouth clicks his radio, but takes a breath before speaking. _“Yeah, she is. I mean, it must suck for her, having to live in my shitty bachelor pad. But I’m sure she’s freshened it up by now.”_ Ben smiles a little at that. _“Actually—she’s just as much of a slob as me, maybe she made it worse?”_ Trashmouth keeps the button of his mic clicked while he chuckles at his own joke, and Ben feels relief just at the sound of it, after going so long without.  
  
“A woman after my own heart.”  
  
 _“Oh, c’mon now, Haystack. Don’t tell me you’re single?”  
  
_ Ben starts to reply, but forgets that he has to click his radio, so Trashmouth talks over him.  
  
 _“You_ can’t _be single! I can tell you’re hot just from your voice, you gotta be, like, fucking people at every rest stop and motel along I-80. Come on!”_ It’s funny, Ben thinks, how exasperated he sounds. But then he wrinkles his nose, thinking about the particularly filthy truck stop bathrooms he’s seen in his day, and the idea of having any sort of sexual congress anywhere near them makes him want to hurl.  
  
He doesn’t mean to be silent in response, but Trashmouth takes it in stride.  
  
 _“Alright, alright, I’ll quit teasing ya. Listen, I got my nightgown on, so I’ll see ya around.”  
  
_ Ben’s struck with an odd sense of domesticity—he assumed Trashmouth was driving, too, but now he’s thinking about him in some sweatpants, tucked up in his sleeper. “See ya around.” He likes that particular choice of words.  
  
 _“Break hearts, Haystack.”_ Trashmouth teases one more time, like he can’t bring himself to go to sleep.  
  
“10-4, daddy-o.” Ben says, and hangs up his mic. He smiles to himself, replaying the conversation in his head. Why did he just say that?  
  
  
  
—  
  
  
  
It's been a long, frustrating night. Ben had wanted to make it to Des Moines by 8pm at the latest, had planned on it. What he hadn’t planned on was a concert in Iowa City, and a college move-in day in Grinnell, both of which made his job ten times harder. Instead of just driving, he had to actively avoid running over dipshits that acted like they owned the road. This is exactly the reason why he prefers driving before dawn.  
  
The traffic on the road was nothing compared to the traffic on his CB all evening, so he can’t say his mood wasn’t worsened by the fact that he hasn’t talked to his buddy in a while.  
  
It's about 7:30pm when he passes a billboard telling him there’s a McDonald’s at the next exit. Fuck it. He’s already late, might as well get a fucking cheeseburger out of it.  
  
He grabs his mic out of habit but hesitates before making a call out. It’s a shot in the dark, for sure. And it might be fucking weird of him to ask. But...  
  
“Break one-seven for Trashmouth. If you got your ears on, I’m stopping at the McDonald’s at exit 155, Colfax. About 5 miles. I could use some company.”  
  
He hangs his mic up and grips the wheel, full of nervous, giddy energy now combined with the exhaustion of his night. Before he knows it, he’s turning into the parking lot of the McDonald’s, which happens to be connected to a gas station. He thinks about a long-winded tirade Trashmouth went on the other day, about all these combination restaurant-gas station shitholes along the interstate. _Either be one, or be nothing! I’d rather take a shower in the Mississippi River than at a fucking TA that’s connected to a Subway sandwich shop! Who the fuck would want to eat at that Subway?!_ He’d squawked, and Ben laughed so hard he almost needed to pull over before he pissed himself.  
  
The place is empty. He orders himself a Big Mac, because he deserves it, god dammit, and sits at a booth near one of the windows.  
  
Just as he’s polishing off his fries, and a little too close to dozing off, he hears a voice to his left.  
  
“This seat taken?”  
  
Ben looks him up and down, skeptical, because it can’t be him. Can it? Has he really been this tall the whole time? Ben supposes they’re probably the same height, but from where he’s seated he’s basically towering over him.  
  
“Trashmouth?” He grins up at him, and his buddy returns the smile as he sits across from him.  
  
“Richie.” He offers his hand, and Ben shakes it even if the formality is pointless by now. Even so, Richie’s hand feels nice and solid in his. A tiny part of Ben is happy to know he hasn’t made this man up in his mind.  
  
“Ben.”  
  
Richie nods and continues to beam at him, his eyes going all squinty. He finally breaks eye contact to unwrap his burger, but Ben keeps watching him.  
  
“You sounded a little worse for wear there, buddy.” Richie says through a mouthful of beef.  
  
Ben blows some air out of his cheeks. “You have no idea. I’ve been westbound all day, and it’s been fucking hell.”  
  
“Mm. I’m eastbound. Nobody in this fucking state knows how to drive.”  
  
“I know!” Ben exclaims. He’s about to say more when Richie puts his burger down and lifts one finger up in a ‘hold on’ motion. He digs his phone out of his pocket and pokes around on it for a few seconds, before presenting it to Ben. It’s a picture of a... fern? Maybe?  
  
“Let me tell you about my plants.”  
  
Ben laughs, loud enough to get the attention of the workers in the back. He leans forward so Richie can point and swipe at the phone as he talks.  
  
“God, please do.”


End file.
